


And To All A Good Night

by lamardeuse



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-04
Updated: 2010-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-09 07:28:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Rodney suck at Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And To All A Good Night

“What about this?” Rodney demanded.

John peered at Rodney over the rims of his aviators. “Hm.”

Rodney stared at him, stricken. “What does 'hm' mean?”

John shoved his glasses back up on his nose and sighed at the latest horror that Rodney had chosen to send to his niece as a Christmas present. It resembled nothing so much as a sculpture composed of the finest kiln-fired puke, with a coating of fresh puke to adorn it. “It means that's even uglier than the other fifteen things you've shown me so far.” Across the broad table laden with wares, the stout old woman selling the vomit gave him the fish eye, and John shifted guiltily from one foot to another. “Uh, no offence, ma'am.” Flashing her his best smile, he nodded to her and urged Rodney forward to the next stall. Behind him, he could hear Teyla restoring diplomatic relations with one of PX-3987's fair but seriously taste-challenged traders.

“Look, I don't think you should ask my opinion any more, Rodney. Just pick something, I'm sure Madison'll like it just fine.”

Rodney's eyes grew wide. “Oh, no. No, no, no, you have to help me. You can see I don't have the first clue what to buy a four-year-old for Christmas. The _Daedalus _leaves next week and it won't be back until February. If I don't get something soon, I'm sunk.”

John made a face. “What makes you think _I_ know what to buy for a four-year-old?” he griped.

“Because you're a textbook case of arrested development?”

“Pot, kettle,” John singsonged, casting his eye over the stalls as they passed by. Scarves, vases, weird carved Venus-of-Willendorf type things with humungous...

“Does that statue have _three breasts_?” Rodney asked wonderingly.

John grabbed him by the arm and steered him toward a large, brightly colored tent that had a swarm of kids around it. “That place looks promising. Go for it,” he said, giving Rodney a small shove to send him on his way. Clearly sensing his quarry was at hand, Rodney plowed his way through the local children, ignoring the sounds of protest and the occasional punch from a small fist. Within moments, he'd disappeared inside the tent.

He knew when Teyla approached him because he could feel her amused gaze boring into the back of his head. She had to be nearly a decade younger than he was, he thought petulantly, so where she got off acting like she was his mother mystified him. But when she spoke, the question wasn't the one he'd been expecting.

“Are you not buying any – Christmas presents, John?”

John turned to her, blanking his expression just in time. “Nope,” he said easily.

Teyla nodded sagely. “I see. Elizabeth explained to me that you do not all celebrate the same traditions. Is this Santa Claus a religious figure?”

“Uh...yes and no,” John hedged, crossing his arms. “Ask a couple of billion kids around the world, and they'll tell you he's bigger than Jesus. But then, so are the Beatles.”

Teyla merely cocked an eyebrow at him, telling him silently that she knew exactly what he was trying to do, and was going to play along only because asking him about it would be too damned much trouble. “And you do not consider him so?” she asked.

John knew he'd betrayed himself when her gaze grew sharper, then edged into sympathy. He didn't want that, didn't want her to think it mattered any more. “Nope,” he said again, sliding into an affable smile. “I'm all grown up now.”

Teyla nodded at him, then turned swiftly toward the tent at the sound of Rodney's familiar screech followed immediately by a loud _pop._ John found himself rushing forward to find out what the hell Rodney had gotten himself into this time.

“Rodney! You okay?” He weaved his way through the crowd and was about to push his way inside the tent when suddenly the flap flew up and Rodney burst forth, nearly clocking John with one of his flailing arms on the way by.

Around them, the children erupted into cheers, squeals and laughter. John took another look at Rodney.

“Uh,” he said, when the squeals had finally subsided in the face of Rodney's terrible scowl, “I'm sure it'll come off.”

Rodney glared at him, but the effect was ruined by the glitter and what appeared to be some kind of thick red syrup. John reached over and patted his shoulder awkwardly; his hand came away sticky, and he surreptitiously tried to wipe it off on his pants leg.

“I hate you,” Rodney hissed, scattering children as he cut a swath through the crowd, John and Teyla trailing behind him. It was going to be a damned long walk back to the jumper.  


    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

Predictably, Radek got the most mileage out of the story, which spread through Atlantis like the severe rash Rodney suffered from some ingredient in the syrup. Even though he managed to wash the worst of it off immediately, he quickly broke out in pimples and hives.

“God, it's like high school all over again,” Rodney groaned, wincing at his reflection in the mess hall tabletop.

“Only with less hair,” John said around a mouthful of salad. Rodney treated him to an expression that was the facial equivalent of the finger. John smiled slyly, nodding his understanding.

“Wish I'd been there,” Ronon said; he'd been off hanging with one of his old Satedan army buddies and hadn't been on the mission. “Tell me the whole thing again from the beginning?”

“I spoke with Nadeera,” Teyla said to Rodney, hastily changing the subject. “The weaving for your sister should be ready tomorrow.”

“Oh, good, good, thank you,” Rodney answered, nodding. “I still don't know what to get for Madison, though,” he sighed.

Teyla cocked her head. “I made several suggestions – ”

“Oh, no, great suggestions, really. It's just – I don't know.” He stabbed morosely at his own salad. “Maddie's been sending me letters – she's already writing – and it's obvious that she's quite bright. No surprise, really, considering the genes,” he added, puffing a little. “I suppose I want a gift that will challenge her.”

“I could carve her a set of fighting sticks,” Ronon offered.

“Did I happen to mention she's _four_,” Rodney snapped.

Ronon shrugged. “Never too young to start.”

Teyla smiled. “I believe Rodney wants a gift that will reflect his connection with his niece,” she clarified. Rodney stared at her for a moment, then ducked his head and reddened further under the pimples. John resolutely concentrated on chewing, trying mightily to ignore the weird urge to...ruffle Rodney's hair...or something.

And then the answer smacked John right between the eyes. “Rodney, you have a doctorate in mechanical engineering.”

Rodney's head snapped up. “Yes, so?” he prompted.

“So _make _her something.”

There was one beat, two, and then Rodney's pimpled face broke into the biggest, goofiest grin John had ever seen on him.

Suddenly feeling an inexplicable rush of heat to his own face, John hastily returned his attention to his own dinner.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

Maybe it was the influx of new people, maybe it was the shift in the expedition's proportions toward the military contingent, but for the first time in nearly three years, the Christmas spirit spread through Atlantis like wildfire. Suddenly people were bringing trees back from the mainland and decorating their quarters and the common areas with whatever came to hand, from burnt-out motherboards to plastic hair curlers. When the _Daedalus _arrived, it was obvious she'd been loaded to the gunwales with every piece of Christmas crap known to man, because the volume of decorations, gifts, tinsel and geegaws increased tenfold. John half expected the wisecracking ghost of Bob Hope to come bounding into the gateroom with a couple of scantily clad blondes in tow.

“I think it's good for morale,” Elizabeth said, smiling at him benignly from behind her desk. John smiled back tightly; it was really hard to take her seriously when she was wearing a pair of foam reindeer antlers.

“Yeah, well, when I heard about the gift exchanges, I thought that was a good idea – ” not that he'd participated in any himself “ – but don't you think this is going a little overboard? I mean, this is an international expedition.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, and he realized he'd probably gone a little too far; after all, it was usually _her _job to remind _him _of that, not the other way around. “Most of the nations represented on the expedition celebrate Christmas in one form or another,” she said, waving a hand, “and the representatives of those that don't have no objections to the celebrations – I checked. The social committee has made an effort to schedule alternative festivities, including Hanukkah and Kwanzaa ceremonies.”

“Oh,” John said, nonplussed. “Well. That's – good, then.”

“Yes, it is.” Resting her elbows on the desk, she steepled her fingers thoughtfully – the effect once again diminished by the antlers – and regarded him. “What's really bothering you about all this, John? You don't seem to be – well, in the Christmas spirit.”

John stiffened. “Do I have to be?” he asked slowly.

Elizabeth kept her expression carefully neutral. “No, you don't. Still, I hope you'll get something out of this, too. We all could do with a celebration of our small victories over the darkness, and of family – either the one we've left behind or the one we've made here. You need that as much as anyone.” She hesitated. “Maybe more.”

Nodding, because it was the easiest thing to do and because he suddenly had an overwhelming desire to end this conversation, John said, “I'll do that, thanks.”

She nodded back at him, dismissing him with a slight bob of her antlers. John fled.

  


    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
“Geez!” John skidded to a stop just inside the door to Rodney's lab, narrowly avoiding slipping on an assortment of belts, cables, screws, pulleys, circuit boards and other mechanical and electronic parts scattered over the floor. “You should put up a warning sign outside the damned door. I almost tripped.”

Rodney flung out an arm at the mess around him, and John realized that not only the floor but every available flat surface was overflowing with useful junk of every description. “What are you so cranky about? Right now, a skull fracture would be a blessing.”

John advanced cautiously into the room. “Jesus, you have enough stuff here to build ten presents. What happened?”

“As soon as everyone heard about my wanting to make something for Madison, I became the junk man,” Rodney sighed. Resting his chin on his hands, he surveyed the scene morosely. “Do you have any idea what a four-year-old would like?”

John plunked down gingerly beside him, making just enough room for himself on the floor. “This conversation sounds familiar.”

“What did you major in in college?” Rodney asked suddenly.

John hesitated. “Physics.”

“I knew it!” Rodney crowed. “I knew you were smart.”

“How do you know?” John asked dryly. “Maybe I was a D student.”

“Oh, shut up, you're smart. And you're going to help me make something.”

John eyed the assortment of parts dubiously. “It's been a long time since I did anything like this,” he hedged.

Rodney waved a hand. “I can figure out what goes where. I mainly need some inspiration.” At John's continued silence, he added, “Please.” Surprised by the softly voiced word, John looked up at him then, and their gazes locked. Rodney was looking at him in that way he had, the way he did whenever everything was going pear-shaped and he figured John was the guy who was going to fix it. Usually they were being shot at or held at gunpoint or needing to fly somewhere really damned fast, and John was fine with being the solution to Rodney's problems then, but this? This wasn't anything he was used to, just the two of them when everything was quiet, so quiet he could hear the low, usually imperceptible hum of Atlantis around them. Right here and now, he could get used to Rodney needing him, and that could get dangerous.

He wanted to tell Rodney he didn't know anything about little girls, or Christmas, or family. But Rodney was counting on him, and ultimately he couldn't let him down.

Tearing his gaze from Rodney's, John surveyed the floor's contents slowly, then rose to his feet and did the same with the rest of the stuff. “Okay,” he said finally. “Let's do it.”

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
First, they built a Ferris wheel.

“What is it with you and Ferris wheels?” Rodney griped, but it was clear he was as taken by the idea as John was. They tinkered and fitted and cursed and sucked on mashed fingers and eventually the thing began to take shape, a miniature wheel that took its passengers to the dizzying height of ten inches.

They argued for a while about power source until John cannibalized an old laptop fan motor and rigged it up to run the wheel, and then Rodney said, “maybe she would like a carousel, little girls like horses, don't they?” and they were off on the next project. By the time they figured out a way to make the tiny poles rise up and down, John's eyes were refusing to focus.

Rodney, however, was still full of energy, running on adrenaline and enough coffee to kill an elephant. He was grinning as he watched the carousel spin in a slow circle, oblivious to the strange, hollow ache that grew in John's chest at the sight. Rodney's eyelashes were really long, John noted absently, the kind that most women would kill for. He wondered if he would feel them brush against his cheek if he leaned in and –

Okay, that was definitely his cue to go. Grunting, he tried to shift his weight, but he seemed to have lost most of the feeling in his ass and legs.

“Where are you going?” Rodney demanded.

John showed him his watch. “I'm going to bed. It's nearly two in the morning.”

“What? Oh.” Rodney blinked. “Wait, what about the horses and the people and the paint? Who was the guy who had the paint?”

John shoved himself to his feet, muscles screaming all the way. “Sergeant Conover. He builds models; I'm sure he can put the finishing touches on these for us. And I'll talk to him for you – after I crash for a while, okay?”

Rodney sprang to his feet as if he were jet-propelled, though he winced a little as he straightened. “Of course, of course,” he babbled, “you get some rest.” John nodded and made to turn away, but before he could, he felt Rodney's hand on his arm.

“Listen,” Rodney murmured, “I can't thank you enough for this. Seriously, I could kiss you.” Then he grinned again, and he was close, too close, and John was beyond exhaustion, and the thing inside him that had been holding him back snapped and fell away into the sea.

And that was why he leaned in until he could feel the puff of Rodney's breath on his lips and said, “Sounds fair. Give it your best shot.”

Rodney's eyes grew huge in his head, and about fifty different and mostly contradictory emotions flitted across his face before he settled for shock. “Are you kidding me? You're kidding me, right?”

John sighed and straightened. “Yes, Rodney, I'm kidding you.”

“Because I – oh, fine. Yes.” Rodney nodded. “Well, good night.”

“Yeah,” John muttered, turning on his heel and promptly slipping on a loose piece of junk

He didn't fall, but it was a close thing; he skidded into a table and clutched it with both hands until he was steady on his feet again. Cursing softly, he turned around again, to be met by a solid wall of Rodney McKay.

He opened his mouth to tell Rodney he was fine when he felt Rodney's palms bracketing his face, swiftly followed by Rodney's mouth hard and demanding on his own.

It was a Cadman kind of a kiss, one that could be played as a gag if all parties were so inclined, but there was something about the way Rodney's fingers brushed softly over the skin of his cheeks that told John he wasn't joking. That was why right before Rodney pulled away, John pressed forward at the same time his hand curled around the back of Rodney's head, holding him in place, suspended.

Rodney gasped into his mouth, and John tilted his head and dragged his lips over Rodney's. Christ, they were as soft as he'd imagined. He coaxed Rodney’s mouth open with a tongue-tip and felt Rodney shudder; Rodney’s hands slid down John’s body to rest on his hips, where they dug in and held, and suddenly John was the one who felt reassured, anchored, safe.

The thought was enough to snap him back to reality; he practically leapt away from Rodney, who remained briefly suspended in the previous moment, his mouth open and bruised and his hands uselessly grasping air. After a second or two, he opened his eyes and blinked at John dazedly.

“Wh – why did you stop? That was just getting really, really good.”

John ran a hand through his hair. “Look, that, uh, that shouldn't have happened.”

Another fifty emotions, this time coming to rest halfway between disappointment and confusion. “Yes, you're probably right,” Rodney said finally, looking away. “It's late, and we're both – ”

“ – exhausted – ”

“ – yes, exactly, and I suppose we got a little caught up in the, um – ” Rodney licked his lips nervously, and John found his gaze following the motion. “ – Christmas spirit.”

John couldn't remember the last time he'd felt anything that even remotely resembled Christmas spirit, but he knew what he’d just felt sure as hell wasn’t it. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he agreed.

Rodney lifted his chin, his mouth restored to its familiar thin line; John tried not to look at the damp sheen on his lower lip. “Well, good night,” John said lamely.

Rodney’s voice was ice cold. “Yes. Good night, Colonel. And thank you for your help.”

As he fled from the lab, it occurred to John that he was getting really tired of running away.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

The Atlantis Christmas Eve party was in full swing when John arrived, thank God. After the sixteenth e-mail from Elizabeth reminding him to attend, he’d planned his strategy in advance: he’d come in halfway through, sneaking through the kitchen, quickly grab a half-full cup of punch, and pretend to have been there all along.

And if Elizabeth hadn't been standing on the other side of the kitchen door, he'd have gotten away with it.

She inclined her head at him in that regal way of hers that translated to _you are so deep in the doghouse you may never see daylight again_.  He briefly contemplated trying to pass off an elaborate story about having had to train the civilian staff on the correct Air Force way to prepare egg nog, then gave it up and went for, “Hey. Sorry I'm late.”

To his surprise, the storm clouds in Elizabeth's expression cleared, to be replaced by a warm smile. “That's all right, John. I'm glad you could make it.” She took a step forward and bussed him on both cheeks. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” John said back, because it was the thing to say and because he almost meant it.

She nodded at the crowd around them. “You have to admit it's a pretty good turnout.”

Surveying the room, John had to agree; the mess hall and wide balconies were packed with laughing, smiling people. Some of them had walked through the Gate with him on that first day, scared shitless but going anyway, because in the end they couldn't imagine doing anything else. Others had come later, knowing full well the dangers but deciding to sign on in spite of them. He couldn't decide which ones were braver, and he didn't care. One thing they all deserved was a damned good party.

“You seen Rodney around?” he asked.

Elizabeth's expression darkened again. “Yes.”

“What's the matter?”

She took a breath, obviously fishing for a diplomatic way of expressing it. “Let's just say I think he might be having _too _good of a time.”

John's mouth thinned. He hadn't said more than a few words to Rodney in nearly a week, since the night he kept trying not to think about. Too bad his brain kept serving it up to him in excruciating, tantalizing, dick-hardening detail every night and twice on Sundays. But if Rodney was in danger of falling into the ocean or groping a woman who might _throw _him into the ocean, it was up to John to save him from himself. “Where is he?”

She scanned the crowd, rising up on her toes as she did so. “I asked Ronon to keep an eye – oh, there he is.” She pointed; following the direction of her finger, John easily picked Ronon's dreadlocked head from amongst the milling partygoers. It was plain to see why she'd picked Ronon and not Teyla to do the babysitting.

“I'll take over,” John said grimly, already tensed for the confrontation he'd hoped to avoid. He might have known that there was no escaping Rodney McKay.

“John, do you have any idea why he seems so – unhappy?”

Elizabeth's question brought him up short, and for a moment he was afraid that he'd given some of himself away before the mask had fallen into place. “No. My guess is he's just being Rodney.”

Elizabeth frowned. “That's too bad. I would have thought you – ” She paused, obviously searching for the right words. “You seem like a very closely knit team.”

John shifted from one foot to another. “Yeah, well…”

“Do what you can for him,” she sighed, smiling at him in that fond way she had that suggested John was some kind of lame but appealing puppy.

John nodded, then plunged into the crowd, smiling and responding to the greetings of people as he passed. It actually took him close to fifteen minutes to cross the hundred feet that separated him from Rodney, and by the time he’d waded past literally dozens of well-wishers he was feeling a little raw.

Rodney’s back was to him, and he was waving a plastic cup in the air in a way that did not bode well. Silently, John exchanged looks with Ronon, who treated him to a scrutiny that he really wasn’t in the mood for right now. Returning the look with a grim mask, he pointed his chin at McKay in a silent request. Ronon’s response was to lay one of his huge hands on McKay’s shoulder and turn him gently but firmly to face John.

Rodney’s face was pretty much cleared of the rash and the pimples, but tonight it was blotchy for a different reason. As he turned, John also noted the ridiculous, wide grin plastered across it, the product of far too much cheap booze. John wasn’t sure how he’d gotten past the three-drink maximum Elizabeth had set, but he was obviously making merrier than the rest of the partygoers.

When Rodney saw John, the silly smile on his face evaporated, to be replaced by a flash of hurt that faded immediately to a dull blankness that made John’s head ache. “Hello, Colonel. Merry Christmas.”

Swear to God, if John heard one more ‘Merry Christmas’ tonight he was going to start punching something. “Yeah, compliments of the season. How are you doing, Rodney?”

“Oh, peachy, just peachy,” Rodney sniffed, making an elaborate gesture with the cup that almost threw him off-balance. “Yourself?”

John had never been much of a drinker, but he was starting to crave a good stiff belt right about now himself. “'Bout the same.” Casually, he jerked his head sideways. “What do you say we blow this pop stand, huh?”

Rodney shook his head. “Nope, sorry. I want to stick around until they sing Auld Lang Syne.”

“That's New Year's Eve, Rodney. This is Christmas Eve. You want to wait a week to kiss somebody?”

Rodney's eyes practically popped out of his head at that, and John winced as he realized how it had sounded. He glanced at Ronon and saw the big guy's eyebrows were raised a whole quarter inch, as close to astonishment as he was ever going to get. “Oh, just come _on, _already,” he muttered, grabbing Rodney by the arm and urging him toward the exit.

The moment they were out of the mess hall and beyond the worst of the crowd, Rodney slowed. “Look, all right, I get the picture. Thank you, I can stagger back to my own room without assistance.”

John only kept walking. Rodney threw up his hands. “Fine. But just for the record, this isn't about you.”

Reaching the transporter, John palmed the door and stepped inside, Rodney following him. “Okay. So what's it about?”

Rodney sighed heavily. “Christ-” he muttered, just as John hit the pad. He experienced that weird flash he got whenever he was in the thing, and then he heard Rodney finish with, “-mas. I've never been very good at Christmas.”

“Yeah,” John agreed, walking down the hall to Rodney's quarters, “me neither.”

Rodney harrumphed. “Yes, I believe I gathered that from your five second appearance at the party.”

“I'll have you know I was there for at least seventeen minutes.” He came to a halt at Rodney's door and leaned, arms folded, against the wall.

Rodney raised his chin. “Why aren't you any good at Christmas?”

John shifted, shrugging. “We were always moving. Dad wasn't there a lot of the time. And when he was –" Jesus, this was more than John had said about his family in a hell of a long time "– let's just say it wasn't the Christmas I was used to seeing on TV.”

Rodney smiled thinly. “My mother once threw an entire turkey out into the snow.”

John nodded solemnly. “I never saw that on TV, either.”

“Maybe on _All In the Family_.”

“Nah. Edith would never have thrown away perfectly good turkey.” He paused. “Maybe _The Jeffersons_.”

Rodney's smile relaxed slightly. “You realize we're dating ourselves.”

“Hey, if the Seventies fits, wear it.”

Rodney took a deep breath. “I suppose if I want to be honest with myself, this is the first Christmas that's ever – felt like Christmas. I know that out – ” he swung his finger in an arc, then jabbed a finger in what was doubtless the direction of Earth “ – _there_, Jeannie is thinking of me the same way I'm thinking of her, and Madison is playing with her Ferris wheel.” He smiled, prompting an answering smile from John.

Rodney cleared his throat. “And I know that there are people here – even though some of them wouldn't know Santa Claus if they fell over him – who have been more of a family to me than most of my family ever was.” His gaze rose, and John couldn't have looked away if his life depended on it. His gut twisted, because as bad as he was at doing this kind of thing, he knew this was the point when you were supposed to say _something_. Trouble was, all he could think of to say was _I think I might be kind of crazy about you_, and that was a hell of a thing to drop on a guy out of the blue when he was half-drunk and feeling sentimental about his sister.

When the silence stretched, Rodney's face seemed to fold in on itself, and he looked away. “Well,” he said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder, “time to say good night – ”

John heard a distinct _pop_, and then all he could see was red syrup. “Rodney, get inside,” he ordered.

Rodney blinked, not understanding. “That's just what I – ”

Taking a step forward, John palmed the door control, then placed his other hand flat on Rodney's chest and pushed him firmly into his own room. Eyes wide, Rodney was obviously too stunned at first to do anything but stumble backwards. He recovered quickly, opening his mouth to speak as soon as the door shut behind them, but before he could actually produce coherent words John moved in close and kissed him.

“Oh,” Rodney said when they parted for a moment, both of them panting lightly into each others' mouths, “you – ”

“Yeah,” John murmured, brushing his lips over Rodney's chin, sucking lightly at his lower lip, “yeah, I do.”

“So this is a good idea now?” Rodney asked, pulling back just out of range.

“Not really,” John answered, “but I don't care any more.”

“Fair enough,” Rodney said, hooking an arm around John's neck and hauling him into another kiss.

Things progressed fairly quickly after that; John vaguely remembered a lot of fumbling with buttons and getting the end of his nose caught in his t-shirt as Rodney tried to yank his clothes off of him, and then his fingers were skating over the smooth skin of Rodney's sides, and God, _God._

Rodney kissed him everywhere, in places he was sure he'd never been kissed, including, geez, his _ankle, _and John lifted his head to tell him to quit it when he caught the look on Rodney's face, like John was every television-perfect Christmas morning rolled into one. Swallowing around the sudden tightness in his throat, John reached down and tugged Rodney upward until they were stretched out side by side, then trailed his fingers down Rodney's abdomen.

Rodney's eyes slammed shut as John brushed against him lightly, experimenting. “I might have known you'd be a tease,” he hissed.

A little miffed – after all, it had been awhile, and he was just trying to get it right – John wrapped his hand around Rodney's cock and pumped it strongly a couple of times. “How's that?” he growled, nipping at Rodney's chin.

Rodney nodded frantically, hips jerking. “Oh my, that's – so much better than I imagined, and – here, let me – ” John felt a sure, firm hand close around his own dick, and he groaned.

“Okay," Rodney panted, "I just have to say that's possibly the sexiest sound I've ever heard, and I, oh, it's been an unbelievably long time, and you'll have to excuse me if I come in the next five seconds.”

John licked the cord on the side of Rodney's neck, then bit the place he'd licked. “Fair enough,” he murmured, and Rodney moaned and shuddered and came all over his moving hand.  


    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
“So what are you giving me for Christmas?” John asked.

Rodney propped himself up on an elbow and trailed his hand over John's chest. “My virtue?”

John barked a laugh. “No, seriously.”

Rodney grinned. “What makes you think I got you anything?”

“You didn't get me anything?”

“You should wait until tomorrow to open it just like the other boys,” Rodney said primly.

John shoved Rodney over onto his back and pinned his wrists to the bed. “Rodney.”

Rodney stared up at him, wide-eyed and panting. “Wow, that's – that's astonishingly hot. I've never been into bondage, but – ”

John slid his tongue across Rodney's lower lip. “Rodney.”

“A Han Solo action figure!” Rodney blurted.

John grinned. “You're kidding me.”

Rodney twisted his wrists in John's grasp. “Oh, God, if you don't do something soon, I think I'll – ” John took pity on him then, settling his body over Rodney's and kissing him deeply.

As John set to work finding all the places on Rodney that had never been kissed, he murmured, “You want to know what I got you?”

Rodney's hand settled into his hair. “That's okay. Santa's been very good to me this year.”  


**Author's Note:**

> First published December 2006.


End file.
